534 THE LAST TILT. Ar twilight, through the shadow, fled "Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell Went wailing away over meadow and mere"SEVEN!" Counted aloud by the sentinel clock On the turret of Time; and the regular beat Fell, like lead, on the ear As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier. The old knight heard the mystic clock; But each time with feebler force, To arrest the spectral horse In its mad, remorseless course, But, alas! he strove in vain. Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell Went wailing away over meadow and mere"EIGHT!" Counted aloud by the sentinel clock On the turret of Time; and the regular beat Fell, like lead, on the ear As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier. The steed was white, and gaunt, and grim, That burn'd with the lurid, livid glare While through the ebony gloom, alone, On the warrior-unamazed On the steed whose eyeballs blazed With a lustre like his own. Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell Went wailing away over meadow and mere"NINE!" Counted aloud by the sentinel clock On the turret of Time; and the regular beat Fell, like lead, on the ear As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier. Athwart a swart and shadowy moor While the old man, weak, forlorn, In the desert, dark and drear! "Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell Went wailing away over meadow and mere"TEN!" Counted aloud by the sentinel clock On the turret of Time; and the regular beat Fell, like lead, on the ear As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier. 66 In casque and cuirass, white as snow, A maiden knight, with lance and shield, And a tone of stern command, The ancient knight, with lance in hand, Rush'd, thundering, over the frozen land, And bade him " Stand, or die!" Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell Went wailing away over meadow and mere"ELEVEN!" Counted aloud by the sentinel clock On the turret of Time; and the regular beat Fell, like lead, on the ear As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier. With his ashen lance in rest, Career'd the youthful knight, With a haughty heart, and an eagle eye, "Dong-dong!" And the sound of a bell Went wailing away over meadow and mere"TWELVE!" Counted aloud by the sentinel clock On the turret of Time; and the regular beat Of his echoing. feet Fell, like lead, on the ear As he left the dead Year on his desolate bier! BERENICE. I WOULD that I could lay me at thy feet, The radiant glory of a face HENRY B. HIRST. Which, even in dreams, adorns the Italian skies This, in some quiet, column'd chamber, where And stately statues, white as gods, between All day, all day, dear love, would I lie there, By murmurous streams, We'd pause, entranced by Dian's amber light, Her faultless feet in lucid ripples, white Then to some tall old wood, beneath old trees, Fairer than those which jewell'd Grecian leas And all that is of earth, and watch the spheres, Treading the feather'd grasses, On, on, along some vernal, verdant plain Our steps should falter, while the linnet's strain And as the gods who ruled all things we saw. Then giving way to mad imaginings Born of the time and place- Henceforth for earth; that even the rudest things THE LOST PLEIAD. Calmly the purple heavens reposed around her, Once on a day she lay in dreamy slumber; A form her fervid fancy deified; What words, what passionate words he breathed, Have long been lost in the descending years; Smiling between her tears. And ever since that hour the happy maiden NO MORE. NO MORE-no more! What vague, mysterious, What soul-disturbing secrecies abound In those sad syllables! and what delirious, Who questions, maddens! what is veil'd in shade, ASTARTE. THY lustre, heavenly star! shines ever on me. Floats thy fair form before me the azure ai Are mirror'd in my heart's serenest streams- 64 AUGUSTINE J. H. DUGANNE. [Born about 1817.1 THE largest work by Mr. DUGANNE which I hardly be stated, is Mr. LOWELL'S "Fable for have seen is a yellow-covered octavo called, “The Critics." "American Bards," by Mr. GORHAM Mysteries of Three Cities! Boston, New York, A. WORTH, "Truth, a New Year's Gift for and Philadelphia! a True History of Men's Scribblers," by Mr. WILLIAM J. SNELLING, and Hearts and Habits!" and on the title-page, which "The Quacks of Helicon," by Mr. L. A WILMER, is here faithfully copied, he is described as the are superior to any others of the second class. author of "The Illegitimate," "Emily Harper," Mr. DUGANNE'S "Parnassus in Pillory," cannot l'he Pastor," "The Two Clerks," 66 Secret be regarded as equal to either of these, but it has Guilt," Fortunes of Pertinax," "etc. etc." He some epigrammatic turns of expression, with is therefore undoubtedly a voluminous writer in occasional critical suggestions, neatly delivered, prose, for it may be inferred that all these pro- which render it very readable. If the works here ductions are in that form; and he has published referred to be compared with that amazing exhiin verse The Iron Harp,” “Parnassus in Pil-bition of satiric rage, “The Dunciad,” of which lory," and "The Mission of Intellect," besides a most of our attempts in this class are imitations, great number of short pieces, in the newspapers, in a greater or less degree, according to the abiliwhich are collected with the rest in a hand-ties of their respective authors, no surprise will be some octavo edition of his "Poetical Works." The argument of "Parnassus in Pillory" is thus announced: felt that they have commanded so little attention. Several of them evince as much malice, but all together, except Mr. LOWELL'S ingenious performance, do not display as much poetry or wit, as the meanest page of POPE's ill-natured but incomparably polished and pointed attack on his contemporaries. From his "Iron Harp," Mr. DUGANNE seems to belong to "the party of progress," and his favorite poet, it may be guessed, is EBENEZER ELLIOTT. The most creditable illustration of his abilities is probably the following ode on Mr. POWERS's statue of the Greek Slave. ODE TO THE GREEK SLAVE. O GREEK! by more than Moslem fetters thrall'd! Where life is half recall'd, And beauty dwells, created, not enwrought- O chastity of Art! Behold! this maiden shape makes solitude Beneath her soul's immeasurable woe, Her eloquent spirit swoons, And flexile with the delicate glow of youth, She stands, the sweet embodiment of Truth; Her pure thoughts clustering around her form, Like seraph garments, whiter than the snows Which the wild sea upthrows. O Genius! thou canst chain Not marble only, but the human soul, And wake such reverence in the brain, If in the ancient days he dwelt Genius is worship! for its works adore Of hallowed influence, that we who gaze Go, then, fair Slave! and in thy fetters teach Be thou Evangel of true Art, and preach E. SPENCER MILLER. [Born, 1817.] Mr. E. SPENCER MILLER is a son of the late eminent theologian, the Reverend SAMUEL MILLER, D.D., of Princeton, New Jersey, where he was born on the third day of September, 1817. When nineteen years of age he was graduated at Nassau Hall, in his native town, and having studied the law, and been admitted to the bar, in Philadelphia, chose that city for his residence, and has attained to a distinguished position there in his profession. Mr. MILLER has not hitherto been known to the public as a poet. The only book upon the titlepage of which he has placed his name, is a stout octavo called 46 A Treatise on the Law of Parti | tion, by Writ, in Pennsylvania,” published in 1847; but while engaged in researches concerning this most unpoetical subject, in leisure hours his mind was teeming with those beautiful productions which were given to the world in 1849, in a modest anonymous volume entitled "Caprices." Among these poems are some that evince an imagination of unusual sensibility and activity, and in all are displayed culture and wise reflection. No one of our poets has made a first appearance in a book of greater promise, and it will be justly regretted if devotion to the law or to any other pursuit prevents its accomplished author from keeping that promise to the lovers of literature. NIAGARA. HO, SPIRIT! I am with thee now; By summer streams, by land and sea, And dreamed what thou wouldst say to me. In spells of vision I have stood, The hour is mine; the dream is gone; The hour is mine; I feel thy spray; Forever new, forever old, Forever what all time hath veld. THE WIND. I STIR the pulses of the mind, And, with my passive cheek inclined, I lay my ear along the wind. It fans my face, it fans the tree, Upon my chilly brow it plays, Away, away-by wood and plain, Away, again away, it roams, Then, sweeping where the shadows ie, And, in its sorrow, and reproof, Away, the old cathedral bell Away, with every breath there come I feel it, but I cannot see..... "THE BLUE-BEARD CHAMBERS OF THE HEART." MOULD upon the ceiling, Mould upon the floor, Windows barred and double barred, Opening nevermore; Spiders in the corners, Spiders on the shelves, Weaving frail and endless webs Back upon themselves; Nor the bat, that clings It will haunt your ear Where a breath has brushed away Dust from off a mark; Dust of weary winters, Dust of solemn years, Dust that deepens in the silence, On the shelf and wainscot, Hist! the spectres gather, Break, and group again, Wreathing, writhing, gibbering Round that fearful stain; Blood upon the panels, Blood upon the floor, Blood that baffles wear and washing, Red for evermore. See, they pause and listen, Where the bat that clings, Stirs within the crevices Of the pannelings. See, they pause and listen, How the eager life has struggled, See. they pause and listen, They will pain your ears; Waken not the dust that deepens Through the solemn years,- Deepens in the dark; Blood upon the floor, Blood that baffles wear and washings Red for evermore. THE GLOW-WORM. DEEP within the night, Sombre shadows meet, Off within the dark; Orchard, lane, and wood, Human homes asleep, Precipice and flood, What are they to it, Groping by its ray; GOD hath given light, Light for all its way; Light to know each step Of the toilsome ground; Wherefore should it pry, Questioning, around? . In the night of time, Toiling through the dark, Reason's feeble lamp Giveth out its spark. Close about my path Hidden wonders lie, Mysteries unseen, Shapes of destiny, Beings of the air, Shadowless and weird, Looking upon me, Uttering unheard,— Sad and warning eyes Pleading from the past, From the years to come Mournful glances cast,— What are they to me, Toiling towards the day; GOD hath given light, Light for all my way. |